


in bloom

by pipistrelle



Series: there is a season [10]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Romance, Tamora Pierce Femslash Week, Tamora Pierce Femslash Week 14, shameless gardening metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lark comes home. Pre-Circle.</p><p>Written for Tamora Pierce Femslash Week 2014!</p>
            </blockquote>





	in bloom

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place before the Circle books and is filled with schmoopy plant metaphors. It's also unbeta'd, so forgive the quality.

Rosethorn was on her knees in the garden, meticulously coaxing a stubborn ivy onto the trellis she'd spent weeks shaping for it, when the blades of grass under her suddenly quivered. The ones that could reach bent to tickle the soles of her feet, infecting her with a burst of excitement that broke her concentration.

Sensing her distraction, the ivy pulled out of her hands. Rosethorn sighed and sat back on her heels, sinking her hands into the soil with a frown. Grasses were usually sensible things, unlike most vines. They hardly ever got this excited over anything besides fertilizer and rain. _What's the matter with you_? she asked them.

They couldn't tell her; they didn't have a name for what they felt. Instead they passed on to her a wisp of magical power, faint as the scent of honeysuckle on the breeze. It wasn't green magic, and the grasses couldn't tell her what sort of power it was, only that it was familiar and well-loved. But Rosethorn knew it at once, the textures of silk and canvas, the scent of fleece, the soothing _clack-clack_ of looms --

She stumbled to her feet, her mouth dry with nervousness, heart pounding with sudden joy. Lark couldn't be here. She was away at Lightsbridge earning her credentials, and she wasn't due home until the first moon of autumn. Rosethorn still had the whole summer of an empty house ahead of her; of no song in the evenings except the chorus of the crickets, no soft hands lightly tracing patterns on her skin through the long hot nights, no laughter to draw her out of her anger at the everyday foolishness of the temple folk. Crane was always happy enough to share her bed and criticize her garden, but the longer Lark stayed away, the more stale and pedantic his company seemed. Rosethorn found herself losing her patience with him more and more often -- as though Lark had taken patience with her to Karang.

Rosethorn had never considered herself sentimental enough to miss another person so desperately, but she had been wrong. It was only one of the many surprising things Lark had taught her about herself. Somewhere over the course of the past year she had resigned herself to it, drawn her love and longing in and stored it like a tree stores the ghosts of its leaves, presenting bare branches to the sky. All the world around her was beginning to bloom while she was barren, dormant, waiting for spring.

The roots of the grasses shouted to her, sang that spring was here.

She had no time to wash her hands at the pump, no time to brush the dirt from her habit. Two steps around the side of the house and she saw that familiar graceful, long-limbed silhouette coming towards her, cutting a straight line across the spiral path. Three more steps brought Rosethorn to the garden gate, just as Lark reached it from the other side. The gate was held shut with rope; the ties disintegrated as Rosethorn reached for them, and then she was in Lark's arms, as though the past year of loneliness hadn't happened.

Heat filled her as her lips met Lark's, blooming in her belly and filling the inside of her skin like a sunrise. Lark's hands rumpled her habit at her hips, holding her close. Rosethorn wrapped her hands around Lark's arms and held on, unwilling to break the kiss until she was dizzy from lack of air.

"I missed you, my dearest," Lark said softly as Rosethorn finally did pull away, breathing hard. She could feel the flush on her cheeks, feel her heart pounding as her body came to life again, quickening like the sap of a tree in spring.

She wanted to tell Lark what she felt, but the words dried up on her tongue and she could only stutter, "You -- how --"

"I got impatient. I asked to take my exams early so I could come home." Still tongue-tied, Rosethorn asked the obvious question with only a look. A slow smile spread across Lark's face. "I passed with high marks, though I don't think the university council was very pleased." She brushed a strand of chestnut hair away from Rosethorn's face, grinning now. "After they found out that you and I are close, I think they were glad to be rid of me. They still remember _you_ quite well, my dear, and I doubt they're in a great hurry to see either one of us again."

"Let them rot." Rosethorn remembered her own last encounter with the Lightsbridge council. She couldn't hide a slightly vicious smile at the thought of Lark showing up all those stuffy, stiff-necked mages who thought themselves the final authority on magic. "You belong here, anyway."

"I think so, too," Lark murmured, and kissed her again, slower and softer this time. Now that the initial rush of shock and joy was fading, Rosethorn felt herself relax, letting go of the tense, low-level misery she'd been carrying without realizing it for all those moons without Lark.

Lark suddenly pulled away with a little gasp. "Rosie --"

"What?" Rosethorn croaked. No one had called her Rosie in nearly a year, and she'd never realized how much she had missed it.

She blinked at Lark, who was staring over her shoulder, and turned to look at the garden. The roses were rioting, bursting into blooms larger than her fist, red mixed in with blossoms that unfolded ivory-white or deep, luscious violet. The ivies had tangled themselves into knots; those that flowered were dotted with buds that burst into bloom as she watched, days of growth compressed into minutes. The apple trees hung heavy with fruit. Even the sensible grasses threw up little white flowers that lay scattered like stars. Everywhere she looked the garden rejoiced, regardless of species, age, or season. It was a wreck that would take her days to repair.

Lark knew it too. "Oh dear," she said softly, her fingers digging into the cloth at Rosethorn's waist. "I didn't mean to --"

"It's the weather," Rosethorn said hastily, feeling her face turn crimson. "The sun -- it makes them excitable --"

Lark looked at her for a long moment, then smiled. "Of course."

That smile nearly undid Rosethorn. She leaned against Lark to hide the sudden weakness in her knees, burying her face in the other woman's shoulder to hide her blush. "I'm glad you're home."

Lark pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. "So am I. Can you come inside? I know you have work to do --"

"Later," Rosethorn said. She would spend tomorrow untangling the roots and tendrils, coaxing flowers back into buds, scolding the apple trees for their untimely exuberance. For now, let them have their celebration; she couldn't bear to take it away from them, not while she was having hers.

Lark smiled and took her hand, leading her into the house.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't have written this without a couple of ideas from shaeberry (mustangscullaaay on tumblr); she prompted me to write about the garden reacting to Rosethorn's emotions, and she's the one who first pointed out to me that, as a great mage, Lark must have gone to get a Lightsbridge certification at some point, just as Rosethorn did. Shae is also the one who came up with the idea that Lark, being powerful and brilliant, would be able to earn her certification early because she'd want to come home. All credit for those things should go to her. Also y'all should go follow her, she is brilliant.


End file.
